


The Greatest Way to Live

by orphan_account



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Abelism, Alternate Universe- Modern Setting - Freeform, Blind Character, Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, University Setting, blind patroclus, genderfluid Achilles, pronoun changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroclus has worked hard for everything he's earnt, so hearing from his University adviser that it might not work for him sends him into a frustrated spiral.  As he's regaining his courage to continue with his path, he seeks comfort in the one he loves most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Greatest Way to Live

**Author's Note:**

> Written for judaslikenahbro for the request for blind character being told that they shouldn't apply to med school, and getting comfort from the one they love most.
> 
> I went with Patrochilles over Wolfstar cos I'm so into this ship right now. I'm not technically taking prompts, but since I wanted more TSOA ones, this was perfect. I'm not totally familiar with American Universities, so I sort of tried to remain ambiguous about the setting and used what I knew--I kept it vague though. I can't imagine they're too different from the ones in England but...who knows. Anyway I hope you like this! x

At the bus bench, he could hear the tell-tale hiss and whirr of the approaching bus. The squealing brakes which were hit far before it came to a stop. He felt the puff of hot air from the exhaust, and the mutterings of annoyed passengers on their kindles and phones, all scrambling to get on or get off.

He always waited until the throng of people were past him. He stood at the back of the makeshift queue with his bus pass ready, cane in his hand so both the other passengers and the driver would know he would need a moment. By now most of the drivers on the route were familiar with him, and Patroclus needed that today.

Today especially. Of all days.

He was moving on autopilot, taking the steps he knew from term after term of Uni on the same campus, riding the same route back to the flat he shared with his partner. He scanned is card and he heard someone shift over so he could take the seat he always took near the front, at the window. Even if they were a stranger, they always made room for him.

He wasn’t going to complain.

Folding his cane, he gripped it tightly, letting the light metal bite into his fingers a little. The pain brought him round again, back to the present, out of the most recent memory and the source of his frustration. He pressed the side of his head against the windows, wishing they were glass instead of the tempered, thick plastic with too much give, and not enough warmth or cold.

His eyes closed shut and it only made a modicum of difference, considering his condition had reached the point he had only a pinprick of sight directly in the centre of his vision which was good for reading words one, tiny letter at a time, and occasionally being able to see the colour of something Achilles had painted.

He let a breath out of his nose and tried not to be bitter about it. He’d been diagnosed with RP when he was eleven. Given over to a group home for children with disabilities since his peripheral vision was fading fast, and there were only so many people who were interested in fostering kids considered special needs.

He was there for nearly six months until the mild-mannered man from Athens appeared and took four of the other boys with him to stay on his estate. They were clothed, fed, tutored, given proper medical care and medications and therapies as needed.

Patroclus was given lessons by a private tutor in braille, and offered an education at a school for the blind as his condition continued to progress. At fifteen he’d met Achilles—the wild first and only child of Peleus who had been at a boarding school in Greece. He spoke broken English and immediately wanted to know everything about the boys—in particular Patroclus whom he bothered for ages upon ages. He begged Pat to teach him braille in exchange for lessons in Greek. He refused to use Patroclus’ nickname, ‘Pat’, instead drawling out his name with purpose, “Pa-tro-clus.”

In secret, Patroclus loved it.

They finger painted together and Achilles tried—failing miserabley—to teach Patroclus the mandolin and ukulele.

Eventually Achilles refused to go back go Greece, demanding an education where his father lived and worked. At sixteen, Achilles made a confession. Achilles was not straight. Achilles fancied Patroclus. Achilles was not a boy. Not all the time, anyway. Patroclus got his first kiss when Achilles realised Patroclus didn’t care about gender or pronouns. He cared about Achilles and loved the wild Greek just as fiercely as he was loved back.

Those memories, those thoughts kept Patroclus occupied on the bus ride, chasing away the shrill, nasal voice of his campus advisor who had spent the morning trying to convince him to withdraw his application to medical school.

“It’s happened before, yes,” she said, and he could hear her pencil tapping on her desk in irritation. “I’m not saying you can’t, I’m saying it’s not a good idea and you’ll probably get rejected.”

“That sounds an awful lot like can’t,” Patroclus bit, squeezing the handle on his rucksack so tightly he’d probably have marks in his palm for the rest of the day. “I want this. I’ve been busting my arse all four years for this. My GPA is outstanding, I have recommendations from six of my professors. I don’t see the problem.”

He grit his teeth then, waiting for her to draw attention to the fact that he’d used the word ‘see’ since that, it seemed, was the issue here.

“If you do get accepted, you’re going to have to muscle your way in, and not a lot of your professors are going to want to accommodate your needs.”

“They won’t have a choice,” Patroclus sneered, losing all of his usual, tempered patience with her. “It’s against the law. It would be discrimination to reject me based on my disability.”

“And yet, the burden of proof that they’ve done that, would be on you,” she said.

“I’m not afraid. I’ve done everything right. I’m going to be a fucking doctor, and you are not going to talk me out of this.” He rose, grabbing his cane, saying a prayer he didn’t trip and fall in front of her, or give her any other reason to feel like she was vindicated in telling him he couldn’t have this.

Because he could.

He would.

Damn it, he would. This was not about her, this was not about trying to be better than people who could see. This was about following his fucking passion and blind or not, he would be a doctor. He would not bow to this.

Not this time.

His hands clenched into fists and he tried to conjure something else. His first kiss with Achilles. The gentle press of lips, the smell of sweet breath, curls under his fingers as he tugged Achilles closer, pressing chest to chest. Or the first time he called her girlfriend, and the way her smile was in her voice so bright and happy he couldn’t stop grinning for days. The way he’d wake up with a nose pressed against his own, and a deep-chested chuckle in his ear, and soft hands roaming up and down his legs before he’s kissed silly, over and over until he’s fully conscious.

None of that is enough right now.

He does know Achilles is home. They spoke earlier. She was the captain of their University rugby team and there was a huge match that Saturday she was training for. The last text he’d got, chirping in the tinny voice from his iPhone simply said, ‘Working out, sort out dinner when you’re home. Luv U.’

He knew he’d come home to his partner on the floor, doing crunches and sit ups and leg presses and huffing and sweating until she was smelly and disgusting. But she wouldn’t judge him for lying round on the sofa doing little more than eating crisps and having some shite Netflix on in the background. And she’d kiss him after she had showered and once he confessed about his day, she’d get him anything in the world he wanted to eat, and they’d spend the evening under a squashy duvet, never leaving each other’s arms.

He needed it right now. Until he found his strength again to carry on because he would not let one person’s doubt stop him from this. It was too important. This mattered too much to let it go.

He hadn’t been paying attention to the stops, but luckily the muscle memory of doing this day after day was enough, and he rose with the other passengers. He was off first, never waiting, and to this day had only been elbowed by an impatient twat once, and a helpful passenger had caught him before he managed to land on his face.

Today was the same as any other day. He made it to the pavement, his cane guiding the way in an almost cursory manner, protecting him from stray bins and the occasional stone which had fallen off a front garden wall. He and Achilles lived in a small condo close enough to the sea to smell it, but far enough away that their drive wasn’t constantly occupied by tourists looking for a day out in the water.

Their condo shared an entry way with their neighbour—it was a little place Peleus had bought for them when Achilles said that they would be together always, and both of them wanted to live off campus. It was two bedrooms, a nice lounge which overlooked the neighbourhood—Achilles had provided many a description—mostly of neighbours who were just shy of too-curious about the gorgeous Greek and the boyfriend. It was home, and it had been home for a while now, and there was an almost physical, nearly visceral relief when Patroclus put his key in the door lock and stepped in.

He could hear the familiar huffing of his girlfriend as she continued on her workout routine. He could hear the sounds of feet moving on the spongy yoga mat, and a few grunts because she was clearly nearing her end, reaching her limit. There was a huffing grunt which was his hello as he removed his jacket, and hung his cane on the peg by the door.

“Anything going to break my neck?” Sometimes, not often but sometimes, she would forget to move shoes, or free weights, and twice now he suffered a broken toe, and once a black eye when he tripped over a boot and hit the coffee table.

Achilles felt guilty for months, and had been better about it. But they could both be forgetful. They were only human, after all.

“All…clear,” she huffed.

It sounded like push ups.

He reached out, touching the coffee table once he reached it, then slid round and onto the sofa. It had been purchased used from someone on their University facebook page who had just graduated and was moving out of the state. Achilles had fallen in love with it. According to all their friends, Briseis in particular, it was hideous. A sort of funky orange colour and kind of furry. Patroclus had been able to make out the colour of it, but in all honesty the only thing he cared about was the fact that it felt like lying on a marshmallow. And many days, he needed that.

He flopped onto his stomach, grabbing the afghan from the back cushion and wrapped it round himself, pulling it up over his curls like a hood. He held it together tightly under his chin as he pressed his cheek to the cushion, and let his eyes fall closed again.

There was a long pause as Achilles caught her breath, then the padding of hands and knees across their wood floors as she crawled over. He was unsurprised at an almost too-warm touch of a palm against his cheek. “Must be a bad one.”

Patroclus let a huffing breath out of his nose, leaning into the touch just a little. “We can talk after your shower. You smell…” he paused and grinned. “Delightful.”

That earnt him a playful smack to the shoulder, then a nose bumping against his own, then soft lips brushing against his forehead, down his cheek, to his own mouth which was waiting in a half-kiss. “Philtatos,” Achilles breathed.

Patroclus shivered at the epithet, one that was reserved for him and him alone. “I love you,” he murmured.

“S'agapó,” was her whispered reply, making Patroclus shiver all over once more. She laughed, then kissed him again before backing away.

The space in front of him felt cold now, but he knew she’d be back. He could hear the shower running, then the sounds of her singing. Her voice was beautiful. He swore he could listen to it his entire life and never, ever grow tired of the husky, gentle sound. He had never heard anyone like her before, and he never wanted to.

Achilles made him feel complete in a way no one else ever had. In a way that meant he was loved and cherished, and still retained everything about who he was. Her presence in his life had never threatened his accomplishments, or his independence. He felt strong, like he could be strong on his own, with her beside him.

This is why he wanted her now.

He took a breath and shifted, making sure there would be room for her body when she finished. The shower had finished, and he knew her well enough to know her routine. She would comb her hair, then change from her dressing gown into something comfortable. Something for him probably—so soft and gentle. She would put on socks, because her feet were always cold, especially after working out. Then she’d trudge out dragging their duvet behind her and she would slide her body right up against his. She’d cocoon them and let him touch her and kiss her.

He’d check on her pronouns, then whisper something to her that would make her blush—heating up under his palms. And she’d grin against his fingers and kiss the centre of his hand, and draw her lips along all of his lines there.

Then he’d talk. He’d tell Achilles everything, not sparing a single detail because she had always offered him the same courtesy when things weren’t going well for her.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Then her feet padded across the floor and he could hear the shffft sound of the duvet being dragged just as he knew it would be. He couldn’t help his smile, even as he pushed it into the cushion—to avoid giving her too much satisfaction straight away.

She huffed when she realised he still had on his shoes. “Patroclus.” _Pa-tro-clus_. He’d never get tired of hearing that on her lips. “You’ll get the sofa all dirty.” She unlaced his trainers, then shoved them under the coffee table so no one would trip and fall.

The duvet fell soft and heavy on his legs as he wrestled out of the afghan which landed on the floor. Achilles’ body carefully slid along his, and Patroclus could feel a silky tank top clinging to her chest. She had on shorts, her bare knee tucking in between his to draw them as close as they could be without things getting uncomfortable.

“Pronouns,” he muttered.

“Same,” she breathed at him. She pushed her nose along side his, nuzzling it for a moment.

“Poli omorfi.” He reached out to cup her cheek, brushing his thumb along the soft skin near her mouth, and she was close enough he could feel the fluttering of her eyelashes against his collarbone. He knew he bastardised her language, but she never seemed to care much. Probably because he tried. Probably because she remembered all too well when her own words were short clips and stuttered phrases which made Patroclus smile every time.

“Tell me.” She moved again, so her ear rested right over his heartbeat, and she twinned their fingers together. Drawing his hand up, she pressed kisses to the tips of each fingerpad.

Patroclus took a breath, revelling in the raw comfort before he drew the pain up again. This was too nice to let go just yet. But he had to. He had to say it because he wanted to be angry, and he wanted her to comfort him. Her alone, because she was one of the few who would not try to make it better. She would battle the world for him, she would battle the gods, the sea, the sky, the air if only he asked her to.

But only if he asked her to.

Otherwise she would merely hug him and kiss him and tell him he was home.

The words began to flow then, trapped inside him most of the day, and they were tinged with bitter anger as he expressed himself. “…I want this, Achilles. I want this so badly and I just…I wanted one thing where someone didn’t tell me it would be too hard. I’ve worked too long to just…let it go.”

“You will not let it go,” Achilles reminded him.

“I know,” he breathed back. “I do. But why can’t I just have this one thing? I had this moment today when I thought, ‘thank god I didn’t go for the guide dog yet. Because the cane is obvious enough but the dog? Imagine what people will say.’ Which is stupid. I want the dog.”

Achilles tilted her head up to brush her lips across the underside of his chin. She was taller than him, but tucked up on the sofa always made her seem smaller for some reason, and he loved it. They could be both things whenever they wanted. “It would not have made a difference. She would have reacted the same. Anyone will react the same if they mean to. If they're one of _those_ people. They do not matter.” Her tone was matter of fact, her accent making her words drip like honey, and he pressed her close. She gave a happy, quiet hum at the affection. “Philtatos,” she said again. “Pa-tro-clus.”

He laughed. She was doing it on purpose now, and he wanted to give her a reward for her efforts to make him smile. With two fingers, he tilted her chin up and pressed their mouths together for long, drawn out moments. His tongue slid against hers in a way so familiar, but something he would never, ever tire of feeling.

When they broke apart, she let out another breath and pushed her face into his neck. “Tell me,” she said.

“I feel better.” He drew his hand into her still-wet hair and massaged a few locks between his thumb and forefinger. “You always make me feel better. I’m not going to give up. She doesn’t matter.”

“There’s my Patroclus,” she said quietly.

He snorted, but pushed his nose against the top of her head. “What are you going to feed me tonight? Something we can order in? Because I’m not overly keen on letting you go further than the front door.”

She chuckled. “The curry one, then. I have practise early, I can’t have anything too fried.”

“I could eat curry,” he mumbled back. “Sleep first though? Only for a few moments.”

She knew this was a lie. If Patroclus fell asleep, the crash of his swirling emotions would knock him out for hours. Their sleep that night would be fucked, and he’d keep her up half the night when he finally woke. She had practise in the morning.

And yet, she merely drew her hand down his cheek, then kissed him over and over, soft enough that he felt his consciousness slipping. He was safe. He was loved. He found his courage, and was able to protect it in the circle of her arms.

And it was enough.


End file.
